


even you are not immune

by indiavolojones



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:00:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22765120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indiavolojones/pseuds/indiavolojones
Summary: “Do you think I could get Simeon to make a pact with me?” Solomon asks Asmo one day, his fingers tracing the binding of the ancient tome in front of him.Asmo furrows his brows at him, “Simeon? But he’s soboring.”[Solomon, Simeon, and realizing that moving forward is just controlled falling.]
Relationships: solomon/simeon
Comments: 19
Kudos: 133





	even you are not immune

**Author's Note:**

> sorry for all my artistic liberties. I spent too much time growing up in a Catholic school system and now I’m just full of religious guilt and thirst. 
> 
> details of note:  
> -Solomon is royalty, just like his namesake.  
> -I threw in the Seal of Solomon as his signet ring! I don't remember if it's ever talked about in the game, but c'mon, it's fun to include. _King Solomon_.  
> -There’s no way being the greatest sorcerer of his generation is easy. I have lots of *vague hand gesture* thoughts about the magic in this universe anyway.  
> -Asmo/Solomon pact established before RAD Exchange Program, because they imply that interactions between devils and humans aren't rare. Asmo is known for screwing around with mortals constantly *cough* _and Mammon and witch debt_ *cough*! Solomon, being so damn powerful, could have definitely met Asmo beforehand. He would at least know who the other is.  
> -(MC) is my standard fill in for any name replacing!

Solomon does not know a life without magic. 

From as early as he can remember, he has been able to do the impossible. For the son of a king, this is a blessing. For a small child whose magical aptitude is already leagues ahead of his physical form, it is a curse. 

The Archangel Michael appears to him in the still smoking ruins of the fire; a seven year old Solomon weeps on his knees, covered in ash. He presses the seal into the tiny, bloodied palms of the child; an image of a better future, a more peaceful, accepting one fills his mind. One where he is no longer scared, and can control the storm within him. Solomon cups the signet ring in his palms, and holds it close. 

For the first time in his life, everything is quiet. 

  
  
  
  
  


“I request an audience with Lord Diavolo,” Solomon says, now twenty-three and _better_ , rising from his low bow. Asmo stands near the back of the room, one concerned hand pressed to his chin. He’d arranged the meeting with his older brother like he said he would, but getting Lucifer to say _yes_ is a completely different feat. 

Lucifer shuts him down with the most scathing of stares. “No.” 

“I implore you, at least hear—” Solomon insists, before Lucifer interrupts.

“ _No_.” Lucifer repeats, bringing himself to his full height. Solomon swallows the bristle of rage, feels its every thorn as it travels past his lungs into the pit of his stomach. Most men balk under Lucifer’s menace. Most men run away. When the Avatar of Pride refuses to accommodate his request, and threatens his very existence…

Solomon turns around and makes a pact with Lord Diavolo’s butler. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


“ _Up_ , up you get.” Diavolo tutts at Solomon, gesturing upwards with his hands. Inwardly knocked off balance, Solomon rises from his deep, reverent bow, “I will not have another king’s son bow to me as if I am not in _his_ home, on _his_ lands.” Solomon is a brave man, not a stupid one. He hardly thinks that Diavolo sitting on his living room armchair in the middle of the night puts them anywhere near the same level—he keeps this comment to himself. With the addition of Lucifer standing menacingly at Diavolo’s side, and Barbatos waiting near the doorway like a silent, intense shadow, the room is sufficiently cramped. 

“Nonsense,” Diavolo grins, the look he gives Solomon is so mischievous that he can’t help but be won over a little, even amidst his confusion, “After all, are we not _both_ princes?” 

Solomon, still not quite sure how to react to Diavolo’s surprisingly mirthful personality, replies as respectfully as he can, “The role of my father is merely a figurehead within my country’s government; you command a much wider scope of power and prestige, my lord.” 

Diavolo’s eyes glance down at the heavy signet ring on Solomon’s finger. “Some would say the same of you,” he muses, elbow propped on the armrest, fist touching his chin. “Regardless, you flatter me, son of David.” Diavolo grins, settling back in the La-Z Boy.

“What is your request?”

This is it—Solomon stands at attention, hands resisting the urge to fidget at his sides. 

Perhaps this wasn’t what Solomon had _hoped_ it would be—he really wishes he was wearing a shirt, and maybe something other than flimsy pajama pants… But when he’d requested an audience with Lord Diavolo, Barbatos never said when. Or where.   
  


(It turns out to be the same night Solomon asks, just as Solomon finishes brushing his teeth in the bathroom. Solomon hurls his coffee table at the intruder with magic, only to fall back as a tall, intimidating figure materializes out of nowhere, strong grip circling his neck.

“Perhaps you were right in suggesting we knock, Barbatos...” Lord Diavolo frowns, just as Lucifer begins to crush his windpipe.)

  
  
  


“Please choose me for the Exchange Program.” Solomon asks, on the verge of breathless; from Lucifer’s chokehold or from his own excitement, he couldn’t say. "The entire magical community has been set aflame by you; they say you calmed the scourges. Every seer senses the dawning of a new era; I believe you will bring it." Solomon can't help the wonder that fills his voice. There are plenty of people who are against Diavolo's efforts, distrustful of his heritage, but Solomon refuses to live in fear. 

Lord Diavolo observes him from his throne (it’s Solomon’s armchair, but Diavolo could make anything look like a throne), emanating overwhelming power in his demon form, and _laughs_. 

“Lucifer, can you believe this?” 

Solomon's heart drops, his eyes widening. _No_. 

Lucifer’s gaze darkens, his oil black wings still beautiful as they spread out behind him, filling Solomon’s living room with a growing shadow, “I can’t. The _audacity_. Don’t worry, Lord Diavolo, I will make sure that he is properly taken care of—“ Lucifer’s eyes are too bright for the dim lighting of the room, and Solomon steps back into a defensive stance. 

While Solomon does not outwardly show it, he has his magic primed at the overwhelming aura of strength coming from Lucifer. He didn’t ask them to meet him with the intention of fighting anyone—Solomon is confident in his abilities, but he doubts he can take on the three of them. Even if he did use his pact with Barbatos.. _Damn_ Lucifer for being so antagonistic—Solomon feels the sharp pang of irritation, but he tampers it down as best he can. Letting his emotions run free negatively affects his control, and that's the last thing he wants. 

“We have our first human exchange student!” Diavolo announces, too excited to wait for the other to finish. 

Solomon’s eyes widen at the same time as several of his candles burst to life, and for a moment, Lucifer is stunned as well. But ever the loyal right hand man, the look of surprise is shuttered away as quick as it came. Lucifer’s wings retract, fluttering in on themselves behind him before disappearing out of view. He nods in deference, but the distaste still burns in his eyes. 

Solomon’s can’t help the flare of lust for the other’s barely contained revulsion.

“As you wish, my lord.” Lucifer says, but his distrustful eyes never leave Solomon’s.

  
  
  
  
  


If it wasn’t for Solomon’s magic granting him heightened senses, he would have never pegged Simeon for an angel. Sure, the pleasant smile on his face and his polite words are the very image of saintliness… But the skin he bares at the vulnerable, soft jut of his hips? The enticing cut of his collarbone? His piercing, bright blue eyes and dark, fanning lashes? Perhaps Solomon _does_ spend too much time with Asmo, but he wouldn’t have needed Asmo’s influence to think Simeon inspires sin. 

Of course, Solomon’s interest extends past his physical preferences. 

From the very beginning, Simeon’s aloof nature reminds him of his own reticence. This resemblance plants a seed of curiosity that lays steady, reaching roots; the fruits are the desire to see what lies beneath the still surface. How do angels experience the world? There’s only speculation, driven by lore, but he is sure the popular opinion of angels being perfect is spin doctoring of the highest degree. There must be something else; virtue is too easy of an excuse.

(Solomon glances down at the signet ring. Does Simeon also have something _too much_ inside him?)

He’s only just begun his personal experiences with Celestial Beings, but he can confirm that devils are relatively straightforward. They are beings that give into every urge, revel in their vices, experience an intense, full range of chaotic desire. If one knows how to listen, and can think quickly on their feet, devils can be tricked by their own nature. _Devils want you to think otherwise, but they are_ just _as bad at restraint as you are._ Solomon’s mentor made sure this was something he understood at an early age, lest he become another bumbling, cautionary tale.

Angels, however, are not held by their desires, but by their duty. Pillars of justice, paragons of virtue—the first and last stand between dark forces that plague the realms at the behest of the creator of all. To try and tempt an angel is like shouting at a wall—or _so they say_. How true could that really be, Solomon wonders, if seven examples that prove otherwise are scattered throughout his classes.

Attempting to talk to Luke about the vast history of the Celestial Realm results in a blase, ignorantly impassioned speech about the Archangel Michael and his prestige. Solomon finds it interesting at first, to hear about his angelic benefactor, but he quickly senses the gaps in Luke’s words, where his knowledge does not match his vivacity. No, Solomon decides. Simeon is where the answers to his burning questions lay. 

“Do you play?” Solomon asks, gesturing at the untouched, elaborate chessboard set up on the table in front of Simeon. Simeon looks down at the table, and shuts his book with a small laugh. 

“If I can remember the rules this century uses, then the answer is yes.” Simeon places the book to the side of the table, uncrossing his legs to lean in and look at the pieces. “If not, I’m willing to relearn.” Propping his elbow on the table, he places his chin in his hand, picking up a bishop to examine the intricate stonework; Solomon sits across from him, their feet bumping accidentally as he settles. 

“It would be my pleasure to teach you,” Solomon says, “But I’m sure you’ll be fine.” 

  
  
  
  
  


Unsurprisingly, Solomon gets trounced. 

Several _infuriating_ times over. Simeon is excellent at predicting his movements, cuts off Solomon’s chase at every turn, and somehow displays _no actual strategy_ until the last, pivotal turns. Though he expected defeat, the repetitive losses incite his competitive streak. Unsure of when his intentions changed from learning more about angels to seriously trying to win, he can’t help his growing frown as Simeon traps his king. Again. 

“Tomorrow night?” He asks, as they reset the board. Simeon’s hands still, before they resume their tidying. 

“I’d like that. Perhaps I can show you how they played it five hundred years ago,” Simeon offers. Solomon can’t help the wry smile on his face as he places the last rook on its spot. Crossing his arms, he sits back and shrugs his shoulders. 

“After tonight, I’m not sure I understand how they play this game _now_.”

  
  
  


Living in Purgatory Hall with Simeon and Luke is a blessing and a curse. 

The first time (MC) enters the class with not one, but _three_ of the brothers crowded around them, bickering for their attention—Solomon takes one look at the frustrated bags under their eyes, the exhausted annoyance, and knows he’s dodged a bullet. He laughs sympathetically when (MC) asks Solomon if his celestial roommates also never shut up. There’s a fond quality amidst their complaining, and while Solomon doubts that (MC) is sharing all that they think, it does seem a hectic enough household that Solomon is not jealous. Besides, living under the same roof as Lucifer makes him slightly nervous, thinking back on the other’s hand choking him all those months ago. 

For all of Luke’s distrustful glances, he’s grateful that he’s living with someone like Luke rather than any of the brothers. Luke, surprisingly enough, is a great roommate. He’s tidy, asleep by nine, an excellent cook, and doesn’t throw parties. Sure, Luke is annoying when he gets wrapped up in his self-righteousness, but he's not _always_ like that. Though he’s hundreds of years old, his inexperience with the world essentially makes him a child by angel standards.

Simeon… however… Simeon is _awful_. 

Celestial beings don’t actually need to sleep—yes, they rest, but they don’t experience the need for eight (if one is lucky) hours of continuous sleep. The older a being is, the more true this can be; except in the case of the current King, who has been asleep for longer than any human can remember. However, there’s speculation that this is by choice, and not by necessity. 

Most of those at RAD choose to follow the simulated “day/night” timekeeping, if only to align with the schedule of their courses and classmates. Simeon finds no reason to uphold such pretenses, and is awake _all the time_. It’s incredibly unsettling to walk to the bathroom at three in the “morning”, only to have Simeon be cooking a meal in the kitchen.

After having Diavolo’s little devils stock the pantry with food fit for human consumption, Simeon goes a little wild with the food combinations. Solomon walks in on Simeon throwing various items in a pot for _soup,_ because he thought “ _noodles sounded good”_. Solomon can only look on in horror as Simeon chops up an entire ginger root, stirring it alongside his floating, melting peppermint candies. 

He’s also a very talented musician, but he only seems to know the most _boring_ of harp arrangements. Sure, it _sounds_ nice, but the echoing beauty of glissandos only makes Solomon want to go right back to sleep. It’s _difficult_ to be productive with constant lullabies. 

(Solomon hasn’t been able to tell Simeon this, because every time he’s walked into a room while Simeon plays, he’s simply sat and listened.)

Apart from his atrocious housemate habits, here are three other interesting things that Solomon has learned about Simeon:

> 1\. Simeon, for his seemingly youthful appearance, is actually an old man. Not just his age, because he’s definitely thousands of years old at least—but his _habits_. More than once, Simeon’s D.D.D. has been found on a random bench or table around campus. (Solomon is convinced there’s some kind of bonding magic imbued in the devices—he’s done enough tests on his own that it sometimes refuses to turn on.)

> 2\. Simeon’s patterns are _absolutely, infuriatingly indecipherable_. Simeon is somehow always in the second or third place that Solomon checks. Months of living in the Devildom, of living with Simeon, and he gets no better at predicting his movements. Solomon might think that Simeon is avoiding him first, but the blinding smile he receives whenever he is successful makes him think otherwise.

> 3\. And then, the utterly maddening and most wonderful thing of all: _Simeon stares at him_. 

Solomon knows because he’s _caught him more than once_. The thought makes him giddy—even if the fact that he’s caught Simeon staring more than once means that Solomon himself has been stealing glances. The maddening part of it comes from the fact that _nothing_ Solomon does seems to rile Simeon up into admitting it. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


Solomon turns twenty-four in the Devildom. 

Diavolo just about _loses his damn mind_ with joy to be able to throw a party for one of their human guests. Solomon half-heartedly glares at (MC) once Diavolo turns to excitedly dictate plans to Barbatos and Lucifer. The smile (MC) returns is apologetic, amused, and blatantly thankful that for once, the attention is not being forced on them. Solomon sighs, supposing his luck can't have lasted forever. 

"And cake! Thirty layers, no— _forty_!" 

"Dark chocolate is my favorite," Solomon quips, drily. If he is to be subjected to this whimsical fantasy of Diavolo’s, he’s going to get his preferred flavor of cake, damn it.

  
  
  
  


“Twenty-four years of life. My, you’re getting quite up there in human years, aren’t you?” Simeon teases.

“I’m being attacked like this, on my _birthday_ , by someone genuinely as _old as dirt_?” Solomon can’t help but laugh. Simeon’s smirks never hold any true malice, only good-natured teasing; however, there _are_ moments when his humor resembles the chaotic nature of the little devils commanded by Diavolo. “Diavolo would be horrified if he knew you were tormenting me at my own party.” Simeon’s true laugh—not the airy titter he gives Luke when the other is getting too worked up, or when he’s being stubbornly coy about sharing “confidential angel information”—is bright, and full-bodied. This is the full-bodied laugh that Simeon gives now, free hand placed on his stomach.

“What’s that you’ve got there?” Simeon points at the book tucked under Solomon’s arm. 

“(MC) got me an ‘i _ncredibly rare, hard to find, forbidden_ ’ book on magic…” Solomon begins, rolling his eyes. Simeon looks genuinely confused at Solomon’s words, his brows cinched together.

“Is that not something you would enjoy receiving?” 

Solomon can’t contain the unflattering snort as he flips open the book, “It’s kind of hard to explain.” (MC) got him a leatherbound copy of _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone_. Solomon bets they think they’re real funny. 

Simeon rubs his chin, “Ahh, human humor.” He nods sagely. A moment passes, and an idea seems to form behind Simeon’s eyes. 

“Would a birthday present be sufficient apology for my earlier behavior?” Simeon smiles, wider than any time Solomon can remember. Solomon’s eyebrow quirks, and he nods his head. Simeon’s hand reaches for Solomon, whose hand complies with intrepid curiosity. Something tickles his palm, and looking down, he is struck with awe. 

The angel has given him a long, pure white feather.

It is one of Simeon’s. 

  
  
  
  
  


“Do you think I could get Simeon to make a pact with me?” Solomon asks Asmo one day, his fingers tracing the binding of the ancient tome in front of him. 

Asmo furrows his brows at him, “Simeon? But he’s so _boring_.” 

Solomon does not think so, but then again, Asmo was originally an angel himself. He knows loads of angels—meanwhile, Solomon knows a grand total of three. One is Michael, who he’s only met once as a seven year old, Luke, who _looks_ like a ten year old, and then Simeon who is—polite, radiant, intelligent— _a frustrating enigma._

“It’s always useful to have friends,” Solomon offers, a bright smile on his face. Asmo stares at him, an indecipherable depth in his violet eyes.

“ _Geeez_ , Solomon. You sure are scary.” His lips form a pout, and he props his chin in his hands. 

Asmo blows air in the direction of Solomon’s face, making the mighty sorcerer squint at the assault. Solomon snorts, waving Asmo’s face away. He props his chin in his hand, mirroring Asmo’s pose at him.

“You’re one to talk, Avatar of _Lust_.” Solomon says, mouth curling up in a playful smirk. Asmo’s eyes immediately perk up, watching the curve of Solomon’s lips. 

“Are you referring to _pillow_ talk? I’m more fond of what comes before,” Asmo purrs as he leans in, until something over Solomon’s shoulder catches his eye. Solomon watches as Asmo’s lips press together unhappily. Solomon turns his head slightly to look in the direction of Asmo’s displeasure. It’s his older brother, Mammon, bursting into the room. Following after him, their face in their hands, is an obviously frustrated, flabbergasted human exchange student. The two are bickering about something in hushed tones, but nothing about their argument is subtle. 

Solomon smiles at the sight. (MC), while a genuinely nice person, somehow has most of the brothers wrapped around their finger. Maybe he was jealous at first, but Solomon knows there’s no point in sulking about being outplayed—their magic powers pale in comparison to his, checks and balances and all that. Besides, his pacts with Asmodeus and Barbatos are nothing to turn one’s nose up at.

Watching Asmo’s distracted profile for a moment, he _hmmms_. The sound draws Asmo’s attention again, a light blush at the tops of his cheekbones. Solomon’s eyebrow quirks at that, and he reaches out to poke the apple of Asmo’s cheek.

“Interesting.” Solomon says, and Asmo sniffs dismissively, batting his hand away and playing dumb. 

The two of them watch the exchange student and Mammon sit up a little closer to the front of the auditorium, towards the other side of the room. They look far more relaxed to be in a room of monsters than when they’d first arrived—Mammon at their side is one of those constants. 

If he’s honest, Solomon doubted they would live through the experience at first. He doesn’t mean that as an insult to them, but to have absolutely no knowledge of the other two Realms and then be thrust into it for a _year_? Solomon is not defenseless in the Devildom, but again, he is a powerful sorcerer in his own right. At least Solomon knew what he was signing up for at the time. (MC) wasn’t quite as lucky. 

“If you’d like to go sit with them, be my guest,” Solomon says, reaching into his bag to pull out the textbook. Asmo crosses his legs and sits back in a delicate sprawl. He scrunches his face up. “You’re not going to listen to the lecture at all, anyway.” 

“No, I have no desire to sit near Mammon for any extended period of time.” Asmo examines his nail beds. He makes no motion to leave. Solomon watches the devil, before shrugging. 

As class begins, Solomon dutifully takes notes, and lets Asmo trace lines into the palm of his left hand. The other’s touch is nothing new—the open familiarity Asmo insists upon has become second nature, and in some capacities, comforting. As an incredibly private person, Solomon only indulges him fully when they’re not in view of an entire class; the small, constant touches like this are a requirement for Asmo’s cooperation. Asmodeus fiddles with the signet ring on Solomon’s left ring finger, and Solomon looks at him with one cocked brow.

“Simeon, huh?” He sighs and tosses his hair, “I suppose you can’t always pick winners.” 

Solomon doesn’t say anything, merely going back to his notes. He notices when Asmo starts to tug the ring off his finger, and he frowns at the other. There’s no threat in Asmo doing this—the ring is magically bound to Solomon, wearable on any finger and virtually impossible to lose/steal, but the act is a curious one. Asmo smiles innocently, which is how Solomon knows he’s up to something. 

Asmo slips the signet ring onto Solomon’s pinky. 

“There,” he says, a salacious grin on his face. “That’s your first step.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Simeon seeks him out this time, instead of the normal other way where Solomon will drop into the chair across the table from him and demand a rematch, or have a question about angel genetics. Solomon will admit that playing chess with the angel has actually improved his strategy, but there are no chess boards here, at least not in the elaborate ballroom, awash with warm, dim lighting. Perhaps Solomon’s being a tad dramatic, but he can’t help the giddy flush that rises to his cheeks. He sips at his goblet of wine to calm his nerves as he watches Simeon amble his way towards Solomon, serving himself from the buffet style of food. 

“So,” Simeon comes to stand by his side, looking out over the crowd of party-goers, “Care to tell me what you’re up to?” The angel is delicately nibbling at his plate of various fruits and assorted appetizers. Solomon looks out across the ballroom, catching the sight of Diavolo on his throne, looking every bit the handsome, charismatic host as he regales the guests around him of his travels. The other devil brothers are scattered throughout the room, but it is the one Solomon shares a pact with that catches his attention. 

Asmo is cocking his hip out, arms crossed defiantly over his chest as he radiates annoyance. Mammon animatedly gestures, and while Solomon can’t hear his words, the other’s vocabulary does slightly lack creativity, so he has an idea. (MC) is doing their best to keep the peace, but it's a lost cause. Asmo has been in a stubborn _mood_ this entire visit, Solomon sighs.

“Well, right now, I'm thinking on whether or not one more glass of Devildom wine will give me a headache in the morning." Solomon ruefully smiles. Simeon hums, but the glint in his eyes reveals his suspicions. He glances from Solomon to (MC) rolling their eyes, now being chewed out by Mammon for some imagined slight. The sight of the casual affections shared by (MC) and the brothers they have made pacts with is a startling, uncommon sight. Then again, there are a lot of things Solomon wonders about the other exchange student. 

“You gave them your powers,” Simeon says, and though he’s smiling, he doesn’t look pleased. 

“Only temporarily,” Solomon shrugs with a smile, “How’d you know?” 

Simeon doesn’t say anything at first, taking his time to thoroughly chew a strange, orange berry. He licks his lips, and Solomon is once again struck by how much emotion Simeon stirs in him with every calm, collected affectation. 

"Is that wise? You are still a human in the Devildom." Simeon points out, before he pops another berry in his mouth. Another moment passes, and Simeon continues speaking. 

“It is impossible for me to not sense your soul. It smells strongly of magic,” Simeon admits, his nose wrinkling, “With your abilities being funneled through someone else, the sudden decline of your presence was concerning at first. Until the six hours is up, you are at your weakest, Solomon.” There's an edge of concern to his voice, hidden amidst their playful tiptoeing around each other.

“Are you worried?” Solomon teases, and Simeon’s gaze lingers a second too long, before he’s smiling back. 

“Of course! If something were to happen to one of the exchange students in Lord Diavolo’s home, the results would be catastrophic,” Simeon says, too forced, and Solomon—bold, and maybe a _little_ stupid when Simeon is involved—gives him a coy smile. 

“I’m glad I have you here to keep me safe, then.” Solomon dares, his eyes lingering on Simeon’s as he takes another long pull from his goblet. Simeon’s eyes widen, and an unknown heat burns behind them. They stand in a slightly tense silence together, watching the guests around them socialize. Solomon’s clothed arm brushes against Simeon’s bare elbow, and Solomon doesn’t know if it’s the wine or the quiet he’s enjoying while his magic is off busily curling around the other exchange student like a cloak. 

“Hey, Simeon… can I ask you a question?” Solomon rarely requests permission before he tries to pick at the other’s brain at this point, so Simeon’s eyebrow immediately shoots up. 

“Should I be concerned?” Simeon huffs.

“Can I make a pact with an angel?” Solomon asks, desire curling low in his stomach at the briefest flare of offense in Simeon’s eyes. It’s so minute of a reaction that Solomon is sure if he hadn't been seeking one, he would have missed it. 

Simeon tilts his head, pointedly looking at the signet ring on Solomon’s hand, “I _doubt_ Michael would agree to such a idea, even if he did give you that ring.” His tone remains nonchalant, neutral; but Solomon knows he’s playing with fire. The only reason Simeon is humoring him is curiosity—a trait he knows that some angels have, and can be explored, if daring enough. 

Solomon is a braver man than most. 

“ _Michael_ is not the one I’d like to get to know better.” 

Simeon’s polite, unflappable smile returns full force. Solomon realizes, regret blooming in his chest, that he has pushed Simeon too far. He misstepped in this unspoken game they’ve been playing, and now Simeon is retreating. 

“I’m sure we will all become very good friends by the end of this year,” he says, smile no longer meeting his eyes. “But if you’ll excuse me, I must find out where Luke has been hiding all this time.” 

Solomon reaches out to him, but Simeon’s cape slips past his fingers before he can grab hold. The magic shoots out, unbidden—it hooks around Simeon’s elbow, and the other swirls around with wide eyes. The severity Solomon sees in him is foreign, and shocking enough that Solomon’s unintentional magic recoils back. Simeon looks like he’s about to say something, but instead, he gives Solomon another tight lipped smile.

“Be careful, Solomon.”

Solomon’s not quite sure if Simeon is referring to him lending out his powers, or to something else completely. He leans towards a healthy mixture of both. 

Simeon avoids him when they get home. The angel isn’t _acting_ any differently—he’s chatting with Luke and continuing to compliment the younger angel on his cooking expertise—but he’s not looking at Solomon directly. Although they are not in the midst of battle, Solomon knows when to pursue, and when to retreat. He does not attempt to talk to the other tonight. Tomorrow is a new day.

Except that Simeon is nowhere to be found the following day. Solomon grits at his teeth, checking RAD’s library for the third time. People have seen Simeon around, _sure_ , but no one can tell him where the other is. Solomon, feeling like he’s been driven to embarrassing lengths, relents. He throws himself ungracefully onto the bed, frowning up at the ceiling. Simeon will come to him on his own terms, if at all. 

Solomon supposes he’ll have to make himself be okay with that, even if he’s not. 

Two days after the retreat to Lord Diavolo’s home ends, there’s a sharp knock on his door, startling Solomon from his meditation. Simeon stands on the other side of Solomon's door.

“Simeon—“ Solomon begins, relief rushing through him. Simeon—with a determined grimace—shoves Solomon, sending him stumbling back into his room. The angel steps inside, closes the door, takes two strides forward, and _kisses him_. 

While there is nothing sanctified about the way their lips meet, it is the definition of divine. Simeon kisses like he is spilling over, cradling the back of Solomon’s head in his hand as he commands the other’s mouth. Solomon, for all of his pursuit and plots, is the one to freeze like a deer in the headlights. Just as he starts to regain control of his facilities, starts to _really_ catalog the taste of Simeon’s lips, the heat radiating off him, the angel’s strong grip on his body—Simeon pulls away from the kiss. 

Solomon chases his touch, only to be stopped by the frown on Simeon’s face, and the strength of the other’s arms.

 _“There_. Are you satisfied?” Simeon demands, one hand on Solomon’s hip, the other curled into the nape of his hair. His bright blue eyes are dark, hazy with what Solomon gleefully registers as want. “You wanted to know if your attempts were working, right?”

Gripping Solomon’s hip with more force, Simeon is the closest to irritated as Solomon’s ever seen him. One of Solomon’s hands rests on Simeon’s shoulder, the other grips the forearm of the hand on his hip. To hold Simeon there or to draw him closer, Solomon hasn’t decided yet, but he is incredibly aware of the softness of the other’s silk glove under his palm. 

“My attempts?” Solomon asks, his voice light and head still reeling from the kiss. Simeon rolls his eyes and releases Solomon, taking a step back. 

“Don’t feign ignorance, Solomon. You have a rather impressive reputation to uphold,” Simeon chastises, but Solomon can read between the lines for the warning. Solomon doesn’t try to convince Simeon that he actually may have been struck dumb by Simeon kissing him; he doesn’t believe it himself, honestly. 

“I enjoy your company and respect your power, Solomon. However, I must warn you that whatever you're trying to accomplish, it _will not work_.” Simeon says, eyes narrowed. There’s almost a threat in them, a provocative intensity that might drive some away, but calls like a siren's song to Solomon. Solomon's mouth goes dry at Simeon's severity. He is no stranger to temptation; Asmo had promised him countless things during their "courtship" in his attempts to outmaneuver Solomon. 

But the reason Simeon makes him feel like this is not supernatural in nature. It is pure, offensively-human desire—not for what Simeon’s power can offer him—but for _Simeon._

Simeon leaves without saying much else, having thoroughly fucked with any centering Solomon’s meditating did. Stumbling back to the middle of his room on trembling legs, he collapses down in the center of the candles. Sweat beads at his temple as he struggles to rein in his magic, set aflame by his racing heart. It lashes at the inside of his ribcage, sheer panic like a trapped animal. 

Simeon kissed him. When did he develop _feelings_ for Simeon, an angel? _Simeon kissed him._ Elation, horror, confusion—stop, _stop—_ Solomon brings his hands to his face, pulling on his hair. He forces himself to breath, focuses on every restraint technique drilled into him his entire life. Crossing his legs, he forces himself to straighten his back, even as his chest trembles with the surge of magic trying to break free. 

_You are not a child, Solomon. You have not been a child for a very long time._ The words of his mentor echo in his mind, a solemn reminder of teachings. His mentor was right, Solomon knew this was a dangerous game, one he was a fool to pursue. 

And it’s blown up in his face.

**Author's Note:**

> Why did I write this?! You can’t tell me that Solomon wouldn’t live in a home with Simeon for a year and not be thirsty for Simeon! JUST _LOOK AT HIM_! look at his HIPS! 
> 
> this was going to be a one shot but in a... ridiculous turn of events... I got some chemical burns on my hands the other week, thought it was fine, made an entire batch of jalapeno poppers... and now typing is unbearable so I'm just going to stick my hands in a bowl of milk and watch tv until the pain stops lmao
> 
> next part in the next couple of days (and THEN delirium. or maybe before. I'm up in the air.)
> 
> @indiavolojones on tumblr!


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